


The Mantra

by PlatoSaysNo



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aprons, BDSM, Crossdressing Kink, Dom/sub, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatoSaysNo/pseuds/PlatoSaysNo
Summary: Bruce, Jason, and the upsides and downsides to a relationship such as theirs.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	The Mantra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kuro49](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/gifts).



> Gift for kuro49! Who wanted apron kink and i threw dom/sub, free use, prostitution, BDSM contracts and a half dozen kinks on top.

Whenever, wherever, however. That was the mantra. 

Whenever Bruce wanted, wherever Bruce wanted, however Bruce wanted. That was the deal. Jason had agreed to that — after many hours of deliberation, and a literal  _ contract _ sitting on his shitty coffee table. Hand signed by  _ B. Wayne,  _ not stamped like half of the man's letters.

It was a whole load of words in a nice manila folder that all amounted to that simple mantra. Words to live by, in Jason's professional opinion. 

He'd had a chance to set some limits, veto a few suggestions — and hadn't  _ that _ got Wayne all red-cheeked, confronted with his kinks — but in the end he'd signed. With the damn pen he'd been provided and everything. Bruce was thoughtful like that. 

Spoiling, even. Too much money on his hands and not enough pretty, young things to spend it on, so he'd settle for Jason instead. Just as tall as Bruce, nearly as broad, twice as scarred. Not pretty in the slightest. But he'd been very clear, he wanted Jason, and that was— that was good enough for him. 

There were downsides, of course. 

Being the  _ kept boy _ of a man who lived in a remote, extremely large mansion tended to be lonely, and a right pain when he had to make trips into Gotham proper. And he was sore half the damn time, aching inside. And the early rising, that might just do Jason in. 

He wasn't an early riser. Sleeping in had kept the hunger at bay, and night time was where the work was. Old habits. Every morning felt like dragging himself from a coffin, just to stumble to the bathroom and start his routine. 

Jason had it down pat by now. A year on and it was second nature. Shower, scrub thoroughly. Shave everything. Exfoliate and moisturise, comb his hair, brush his teeth. Apply concealer, and whatever make-up he felt like. 

Dress, mostly in the dark, Bruce usually getting the  _ luxury _ of sleep. Whatever he'd had picked out. Whatever Bruce was in the mood for. It was always a surprise. Sometimes an actual dress. Other times, shorts and tight polo shirts, high rise socks. Sometimes, nothing at all, maybe a pair of underwear. 

Bruce always did enjoy his glares on those days. But he always found ways to… warm Jason up. 

Breakfast. Coffee. Breakfast for  _ Bruce,  _ with a side order of blowjob because he was like clockwork. Not that Jason minded  _ that _ so much, something deeply pleasant about the noises Bruce could make in his chest before noon — rumbling and warm, freely given. 

And he supposed that was the other downside. Bruce liked it often.  _ Often-often.  _ Before, during, and after, if he fucking could. Jason's days sometimes felt like brief periods of normality between marathons of sex, because Bruce was an incorrigible forty year old man with nothing better to do when he wasn't at the office. That, and pool parties, or whatever other socialite get-together Jason was allowed to avoid like the plague on account of doing  _ everything else _ for the man. 

He supposed that explained the contract, at least. 

And there were the boring days. He'd done most of their personal laundry. Washed all the dishes by hand — no dishwasher for Jason, apparently, that was a  _ no _ in Bruce's archaic mind — and straightened every cushion and blanket in a ten mile radius. Read half a book and spent the day curled up watching television under a blanket, nothing on besides plain, tight boxers. 

One of the rare days Bruce had deigned to text and  _ actually say _ he would be late from work. That was fine. Jason knew the drill. Push dinner by an hour or two, keep himself occupied. Be prepared for the release of pent-up annoyance of being stuck in his office all day. Usually released via Bruce's cock down Jason's throat, or the frenetic, gloriously hard thrusts of his hips all night long. 

Those, he supposed, were also upsides to their little agreement. Besides the gifts, and the nice house, and the warm, heavy weight of Bruce's arm around his waist at night — the sex was fucking  _ good.  _

And Jason had had a lot of that, over the years. Way too much probably. But he liked to think of it as preparation for this unforeseen event in his life. Contractually bound to Bruce Wayne's  _ dick.  _ He could keep up, and Bruce usually made up for it in his own way. Breakfast in bed was damn nice when he was aching and bruised and still riding the buzz of the night before. 

Still boring, though. There was only so many times he could flip through the television channels. Only so many ways he could sit while reading a book — sideways and upside down and flat on the floor, which reminded him a lot of Bruce's penchant for positioning, but that was beside the  _ point _ and  _ off-topic _ and maybe Jason had nothing better to do than be aroused and wait for his owner to come back home. 

Call him a good boy and ruffle his hair, maybe. Jason stared at the ceiling for a long, quiet moment, thought  _ fuck this _ and rolled from the couch with grace. 

It wasn't that early. Bruce could turn up at any minute, really. He didn't want the spanking, or the denial, if things weren't ready and done by the time he got home. 

Well. Maybe a little. 

He could find something that took a while to make, easy. Bruce always appreciated the cooked-from-scratch approach. 

To the kitchen at large, Jason announced: "Casserole." And got to work, sliding over a chopping block before flicking the radio on. It was mostly news at this time, but any background noise would do. Wayne Manor was awfully quiet, sometimes. 

That was another upside, he supposed. Food in abundance. And Jason  _ did _ find he liked cooking, when he had the time and resources, and Bruce gave him that in spades. Gave him pretty much everything he asked, and some he didn't ask for. 

He was good, under the quiet, severe layers. A good man. Good enough that Jason stuck around, instead of skipping town on the first paycheck. 

He chopped, diced, and sliced pretty much an armful of vegetables. Enough for leftovers. Set a bunch of potatoes on to boil, and got to work on browning the meat, starting to find his rhythm after such a sluggish day. 

It felt good. Doing something, but doing it for Bruce. Knowing there was that honey-warm word of praise in his ear coming, Bruce's arms sliding around his waist tight. Jason  _ lived _ for that, sometimes. The way it slid from Bruce's lips like a warm kiss, easy when other things tended not to be with him. 

So, dinner. Casserole. A mountain of potatoes. And an apron. 

It was about the only thing he was  _ allowed _ to wear no matter what. Safety first was Bruce's motto, which was kind of sad compared to Jason's motto, he thought. But Jason's safety was apparently  _ paramount.  _ It had taken up, like, half the contract which was a bit ridiculous. 

He knew how not to add more scars to his collection, thanks. A little steam from the stovetop wouldn't kill him. Just redden his skin, warm to the touch, the underside of his chin a little damp and hair-free. 

But, there it was anyway, a soft shade of pink with white straps, just  _ this side _ of too small. If he leaned over to the spice rack, he could feel cool air on his skin, hardening his nipples almost immediately. And it was  _ rough,  _ rubbing just right against the rise of his chest, distracting at the more idle moments. 

If Jason added a little more spice than usual sometimes, well, that was his own business. 

Between the familiar task,and the radio chattering away about  _ the game,  _ and Jason's own ratcheting distraction at the thought of a whole lot of later, he must have missed the noise of Bruce's return. Must have, because one moment he's absentmindedly stirring the pot of meat a little and the next he's  _ acutely _ aware of the air around him. 

The squeak of a shined shoe on glossy kitchen flooring, purposeful, because Bruce could be  _ damn  _ quiet when he wanted. The rustle of fabric that Jason could see in his mind without even looking, rooted to the spot with the thought of strong, hair-matted forearms and rolled, crisp white sleeves. 

That particular shine Bruce's hair gets after a long day, fingers running through it all afternoon while tied to his desk by his phone. That smooth motion when he tugs his tie free and sometimes — in the  _ best _ times — beckons Jason's to his knees and tells him to choke on his cock. How he looks like every man that's ever paid Jason for his time and made it hurt — professional and broad and  _ mean,  _ glossy exterior hiding a bruiser — and never gone that far.

Not once, has he ever crossed the line. Quite the opposite. 

Jason exhales, blindly watching dinner cook, and practically melts at the arms that slide around his waist, under the fabric. Bruce's mouth at his throat for an open-mouthed kiss. 

"Looks good," he murmurs, pleased. Jason hums, leans back into the solid weight behind him. 

"Me or the food?" He asks, a little amused, except he can already feel it. Evidently, he's not been the only one waiting for Bruce to be freed from the office. Typical. 

Bruce makes an affronted little noise. The same one he always makes in the face of a little flirting at a time like this. 

He'd been so… reserved, to begin with. Hesitant, even with a signed contract sitting in his lap and Jason  _ more _ than compensated. Embarrassed maybe. Repressed for fucking sure. Wanting so many things and no clue how to ask for any of them with actual, real words, to Jason's face. 

Bruce had got a little better at that, since then. But sometimes he let other things do the talking. Jason's smile widens at the press of Bruce's erection, straining through his slacks and soft, cotton boxers. 

"Food's good." Bruce agrees lightly. Presses his jaw to Jason's, rubbing slightly. "You're better, though." 

"Glad I beat some carrots and potatoes." Jason snorts, fighting down the traitorous rush of blood to his cheeks anyway.  _ So what.  _

And then there's one hand settling on his hip, fingers splayed wide and possessive. Bruce exhaling a little louder, mouth sliding down to press to the bare curve of Jason's shoulder. The telltale sound of his zipper tugged down, button popped open, Bruce's sigh of relief a hot puff of breath over his skin. 

Jason bites the tip of his tongue, growing hard in his underwear already, the front of his apron tented a little. 

There's some downsides to this, sure. Early mornings and blowjobs on demand, and a man who has  _ no clue  _ how to function without him. As he feels the wide, heavy crown of Bruce's cock nudge against his ass, warm fingers tugging his underwear out of the way — he can't help thinking there's some real  _ upsides _ to it, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> :3


End file.
